Strong
by Dragonfly-Moonlight
Summary: He had always desired to be strong, but in his mind, he would always believe himself to be weak.


Strong.

He had always wanted to be strong, capable of tackling and handling any situation that could potentially come his way. There was much he had to prove, after all, to himself and to the world as he knew it. The only child of not just one but two famous parents, people expected him to be just like them, maybe even greater than they were. His parents had been pioneers in their field of study, and they had made dozens of groundbreaking discoveries. They had helped to improve the lives of so many others through their research alone. People wanted him . . . no . . . they did not want him to do the same great things as his parents. They _expected_ him to be like his parents. Even his childhood friend wanted him, them, to be like his parents, the two of them working together always. She had often talked of how they could try and surpass the collected geniuses his parents had created.

A cool hand touched upon the center of his forehead, the fingertips having been dabbed into warm, scented oil, and Fayt leaned into the touch, never once bothering to open his eyes. The faint aroma of lavender invaded his senses, and Fayt inhaled deeply. It pleased him, for some reason, this bizarre ritual he now endured. Every day, the same person came to him and touched his forehead, the scent of lavender always in the air. Having the contact with this person soothed him, though he could no longer remember why.

So many truths had come to light, truths he found too overwhelming to bear. The strength he desired and believed he had always possessed evaporated like water in molten lava. In the face of an oncoming storm, a storm in which the fate of everything he knew rested on his shoulders, he wilted and crumbled on the inside, crying for his parents like a little, lost child. He was not strong, he had never been strong, but he had pretended to be strong. For the sake of his friends, Fayt lied about his abilities when all the time he felt scared, cast adrift, lost, and abandoned. No one understood. No one had bothered.

"You're remembering again," a silken voice murmured. "You should stop. It upsets you."

Fayt finally opened his eyes to find an azure gaze upon him and a halo of reddish gold light. The same hand on his forehead moved, traveling down the right side of his face.

"I was thinking," he said.

"Remembering," his companion corrected. A smirk started to grace his companion's god-like features. "I can tell by the way your eyes were closed. Who were you remembering, if you do not mind me asking."

"I don't mind," Fayt said. "And I was thinking of my parents, my friends . . ."

"How things were before . . ."

"Yes," Fayt confirmed. His gaze traveled to the ceiling and focused on nothing in particular. "How things were."

"You felt you were weak back then," his companion said.

"I still do," he admitted. "I still am weak. There's nothing else to it."

"There is strength in weakness."

"Funny hearing you, of all people, saying that."

The blue-eyed man laughed, a rather musical sound. Fayt rather liked it, and he often wished his companion would laugh more often.

"You did the impossible, did you not? You defeated the Creator and saved the world as you knew it. Such a phrase is easy to say when one considers all of your accomplishments."

"Do you really think so? Saying that, I mean."

Fayt remembered the battle with the Creator and vividly so. He had been the only one Luther Lansfeld had attacked, had truly attacked. Everyone else – Sophia, Maria, Cliff, even Albel – had been ignored. Whenever they had advanced towards him, Luther sent them flying. Then he finally had erected a barrier so no one except Fayt could reach him. Bloodied and bruised and battle-weary, Fayt had fought on even as fear and Luther's immense power washed over him. Eventually, he had collapsed, what little bit of strength he'd had spent. Fayt remembered no more after that, except for waking up on the Diplo, Sophia and Maria standing over him, their expressions filled with worry.

"There is strength in weakness, Fayt. If I did not believe, I would not have said it."

Fayt smiled at those words. Of course, his companion believed in what he said. He claimed Fayt had taught him as much, but the blue-haired young man remembered no such lesson. There were huge gaps in his memory, events that took place before and after the Creator's defeat he knew he should have recollections of but they were no longer there. Among those missing memories happened to be his companion's arrival. When and where they had met, Fayt could not say. It simply felt as if the blue-eyed man had been there all along. For all Fayt knew, his companion had always been with him and indulging him in this strange ritual.

"You're smiling."

"I am?" Fayt blinked.

"Yes."

"Oh."

"It was something I said?" his companion asked.

"Yeah . . . I guess so."

Carefully, Fayt pushed himself into a sitting position. He ignored the stabs of pain shooting through his legs and lower back as he did. His companion's arms automatically wrapped around his waist in assistance, and Fayt leaned against him, inhaling deeply. Along with the scent of lavender, he caught a faint hint of something other fragrance, something he could not identify just yet, but he knew he liked it.

"You should be resting, Fayt. You are not fully healed."

"I am resting," Fayt said. "I just want to sit up for a moment."

"This I can see. The question is why. You are still recovering."

"I'm tired of laying down." Fayt's breath hitched a little as he spoke, a different twinge of pain singing along with what he already felt. Tears stung his eyes, and he collapsed forward, his head resting on his companion's shoulder. The movement was too much, but, for the life of him, Fayt could not remember what had happened to him for his body and memory to be in shambles. Helplessness and despair washed over him, and he clung to the blue-eyed man desperately. His companion was the only one in whom he found comfort. He did not feel strong, not anymore, and the sensation alone was enough to break his heart.

Luther held the blue-haired man as Fayt cried himself to the point of exhaustion. Over and over again, Fayt berated himself for his failings, calling himself weak and worthless. Repeatedly, he questioned why Luther stayed with him. The blond-haired man let the emotions pour out of Fayt offering reassurances when and where needed until they no longer could come forth, and the embodiment of Destruction slept. Then Luther brushed back tear-dampened bangs and lowered the younger man back onto the bed, peace finally reigning over Fayt's body. Pain no longer wracked his body. It grieved him that he could not do anything more for the younger man. All of the medications they had tried had stopped working some time before. Now all that seemed to soothe Fayt were the daily rituals with the warmed lavender oil and the crying sessions.

"You're wrong, my love," he murmured. "You are not weak. You never have been and you never will be. You, Fayt Leingod, _are_ strong, stronger than what you realize. I just wish there was more I could do for you."

He kissed the younger man's hand and forehead before stretching out alongside Fayt. They both needed the rest, the last several minutes the most draining yet the most productive.

Despite his earlier words, Luther _wanted_ Fayt to remember the past. He _needed_ for Fayt to recall the events that had led them to where they currently were. If Fayt did not remember in a timely fashion, the Eternal Sphere would be gone.

Forever.


End file.
